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Max had the decency to colour slightly. ‘He’s the Count de Montpellier and I was acquainted with his wife.’

Ferdy was suddenly exasperated. ‘Max, you’re quite irredeemable! Why can’t you leave other men’s wives alone?’

Max grimaced. ‘I’m more sinned against than sinning. I can tell you I feel more ravished than the infamous Sabine women.’

‘Oh, come on! I’m not about to believe you’re the innocent in the matter.’

‘Well, I do think that if you prance off to war to do Boney’s dirty business, then you can’t expect your beautiful young wife to wait in virtue for your improbable return.’

‘But how reckless, Max, to cuckold military men. You know their honour is everything and, even more concerning, their job is to kill and they are likely to kill you – or, in Captain Payton’s case, you’re likely to kill them, and while away your years in exile.’

‘I know, I know! But you forget I was in exile and away from my friends and usual pursuits. Being young and full of animal spirits, what is there to do but make love to all the lovely women who ask?’

‘Oh Max! How many more furious husbands are going to come looking for you to avenge their honour – and come directly to my door? Have you not gained in wisdom with the years? Isn’t it time to mend your ways?’

Max gave his friend a rueful smile. ‘You’re right. I have even been thinking I will follow your example and marry.’

‘The devil! No. Who would have you?’ Ferdy gave a surprised guffaw.

‘Well, methinks the estimable Mrs Payton would have me. We have known each other long and get on extremely well. She may be ten years older but is still a beauty, and you know how I like my beauties ripe. And she has more energy than I.’ He gave his friend a knowing wink. ‘Best of all, marrying her would restore to me one of my main confiscated estates. That’s also a consideration, wouldn’t you agree?’

Ferdy groaned. ‘What a mess. You kill her husband, father to my betrothed, and then marry the widow! The gossips and clacking tongues would grow deafening, and implicate me and Miss Payton in the process. Does Miss Payton know yet that it is you, not the dashing baron, Lord Whiley, who is wooing her mother so assiduously?’

‘No, she does not! My assignations are at night and pass unnoticed. And if she did find out, ’twill be devilish awkward with her and her mother. Do not let a hint pass your lips.’

‘Don’t worry, Max!’ Ferdy was outraged. ‘I have my future in the balance, my good name to lose, implicated as I am in your deceit against Miss Payton and society in general.’ He kicked the fire with his boot with unaccustomed ferocity. ‘I’ve never been happy about this, Flambard, as you know. And you seem to be blithely diving deeper into the mire and dragging me with you.’ His voice rose.

‘Well, this is why I’ve decided I have to retain my other title as Lord Whiley while these Frenchies are looking for me. Can you tell the unimpeachable Maltby not to allow admittance to anyone asking for Lord Flambard?’ Ferdy’s head was in his hands when Max Flambard, in no way chastened, slapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Be of good cheer, old friend. I have it all in hand. You know you don’t need to worry. It will all work out in the end.’

5

AN ATTEMPTED ABDUCTION

The day of Lady Lockhart’s soirée dawned with a sense of foreboding. The air was heavy and already sultry with summer heat. It would get hotter with the ever-present threat of thunder that never seemed to break. At the tail end of the London Season, there were fewer people left to invite to social occasions and social barriers were lowered, ensuring a more raffish collection of guests than at the height of festivities.

Mrs Payton and her daughter, Mr Shilton and the recently bereaved Marquess of Kintbury, whom Lady Lockhart had thought a perfect match for her daughter, were all invited. But that daughter’s will was more than a match for her formidable mother and even Lucinda Lockhart at the last moment succumbed to filial blackmail; if Miss Lockhart’s favoured suitor, Mr Paget, could not attend, then, she declared, neither would she. Nerves were frayed before even the first guests arrived.

Madeleine was nervous enough at having to perform a virtuoso piece by Clementi on the pianoforte. She was glad to have inherited her father’s musical ability and her mother’s temperament, but she feared she had not practised enough the difficult first movement. There were so many speedy arpeggios that it would be jarring to get wrong! However, she had her lovely new dress to give her strength, and Dot had emerged from the kitchen to help fasten it and do her hair.

Madeleine stood in the breathtaking confection of rose lace over gold tiffany, barely believing how beautiful it made her feel, how attractive she looked reflected in the age-speckled looking glass before her.

‘Oh, Miss!’ Dot was gratifyingly impressed.

No one else but Mr Shilton and Miss Payton had seen it and Madeleine felt emboldened and brave in its sparkling embrace. Dressed like this, she could face anything, even the difficult sonata she had to play in front of an unfamiliar audience.

But her hair was a different matter. Naturally straight and light brown, for special occasions, when curls were in order, it had to be rolled in rags the night before, then arranged on her head with spiralling fronds and ringlets, in natural disarray. Dot was masterly at transforming Madeleine’s head into the most fashionable profile, but it was a fragile construction – heat or activity made the curls relax to their natural state. With luck, however, the illusion would last the evening.

Feeling thus armoured, she walked towards the hallway and almost bumped into her cousin, Lord Lockhart, who had just plunged through the front door in a hurry. He stopped abruptly and gave her a hard look. ‘Why, Maddie! What a transformation. I approve the toggery. By Jove!’ and he took her chin between two fingers and lifted her face to meet his merry eyes. Startled, she thought for a moment he was about to kiss her, but he laughed and turned away. ‘Well, the Gorgon-Mother certainly knows how to put on a party.’

He was right. Lady Lockhart, for all her lack of human sympathy, was a prodigious organiser and tonight, the house was filled with flowers and candles, the drawing room glittered with light and the grand pianoforte stood polished and gleaming in the centre. A cold buffet had been laid out in the dining room, the table with a central cornucopia of fruit and sweetmeats surrounded by haunches of venison and ham, ready sliced into delicate shavings, with pickles and bite-sized pieces of roast vegetables. Mrs Porton and Dot had excelled themselves in the kitchen.

Lady Lockhart and her children were greeting the guests in the hallway. William Paget and the Marquess of Kintbury arrived at almost the same time, and as Miss Lockhart grasped Mr Paget’s arm and immediately engaged him in an intense private conversation, Lady Lockhart had to call on Madeleine’s social skills to take the Marquess through to the drawing room and refreshment. Madeleine gave him her hand as he bowed in greeting. He was certainly not as ancient as Methuselah, as Henrietta had feared, and looked barely into his thirties. He also had a very pleasing demeanour, was tall and dark with brown eyes which crinkled at the corners but now seemed veiled with grief. It was not long since his wife had died and Madeleine felt a wave of sympathy for his plight.

As his eyes fell on the pianoforte, his expression brightened. ‘What a handsome instrument. I hope it will be put to use this evening.’

‘It will indeed,’ Madeleine replied. ‘I’m playing part of a Clementi sonata.’

The Marquess turned an astonished face to her. ‘Well, Miss Rose, you must be a most accomplished musician. The Clementi sonatas are not for novices. I know them well. My wife used to play them to me.’